


The Other Side of the Equation

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Clones, Gen, M/M, Minor Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines, Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred, Suicide, Violence, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 23:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: My answer to the question of – what happened to the copier?Stan happened.





	

Their blood is black and sticky. It takes days to wash off, and scrubbing it out of the floor takes so long his whole body aches by the end of it.

It’s worth it. 

*

“I can’t do this,” the third one says. “Fuck, I can’t – I can’t – “

Stan isn’t thinking clearly. He swings. The crack of his fist connecting is the best fucking thing he’s felt in months, in years, maybe. His nose breaks, and a spurt of black ink splatters between them. The clone is him, though, and doesn’t even hesitate before taking a crack at Stan. 

The fight is over fast: Stan knocks the clone on his ass and follows him down. He straddles his stomach. He punches, quick and accurate and brutal, as the ink spits onto his hand, his arm. It splatters on his face. Stanley, under him, gargles and chokes on a tooth. He begins to melt. 

“Ha,” Stan says. “Ha!” He throws his head back and begins to laugh with his whole body. It’s a rush like nothing he’s ever felt before. 

*

The next one survives him. It kills itself at the end of the evening. Stan stands at his kitchen window and watches as it – as he – steps out into the light rain, and lifts his hands, and lets himself drip into the earth. It’s one of the most peaceful things he’s ever seen. 

The one after that:

“Whoa,” it says. It stares at his hands, in wonder. Stan isn’t sure where their memories start, because none of them seem to remember the copier, and only half of them remember losing Ford. Apparently his brain has some catching up to do. “Did I just get born?” 

Stan spins his bat, lazily. “Don’t get too cocky,” he says, just so the clone will look up and realize what’s about to happen. 

Stan pulls the bat back, and bares his teeth, and _swings._ It breaks the clone’s jaw, and he crumples into the copier. Stan taps his head with the bat to bump him down to the floor, then brings the bat down – again, and again, and again, feeling like he’s burning alive. He’s grinning. The clone screams, and buckles into the fetal position, but that just exposes its spine.

Stan likes being on this side of the equation. He can finally see its appeal.

When it’s over, and the clone is just a smear on the floor, Stan wipes his face and finds it wet. His chest is convulsing like it does when he cries. But that can’t be right – he feels _fantastic._

*

The next one works with him for almost a week before up and disappearing. Stan doesn’t find ink stains anywhere, so figures it went for a walk and forgot about dew, or something. The one after that kills itself on accident, by mimicking Stan and grabbing a beer – he doesn’t stop it, just sits at the table and cracks his open and watches.

He leaves the copier alone for a week after that, but by the end of the week, he feels run-down again, exhausted and hopeless and frazzled. 

A guy deserves to cut loose, now and then. 

*

So: The clone puts a hand to its head, and sits, and gazes into the middle distance, processing the monumental task ahead of them. “You can see why I need some help,” Stan says.

“No shit,” it says. “But…I mean…two eggs don’t make a ham.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! I’m stressed, alright? What the fuck are we gonna do? I mean, how long do I even have to live?” 

Stan runs his tongue along the back of his teeth. It feels wrong, making the premeditated decision of how, specifically, to hurt it; it’s the only reason the clone isn’t on the ground, yet. The bat, after all, was mostly an impulse thing. “Forget it, man,” he says. “C’mon, let’s see if our two brain cells can get anything going.” 

The clone nods, and stands. Fuck, Stan can’t do it. Knowing that makes his anger come to a point, and he turns, and smashes his elbow into the clone’s face. It’s _almost_ good enough, but isn’t – when the clone puddles on the ground, Stan is winded, disheveled, and _furious._ He goes straight to the copier and makes another one. 

He doesn’t talk to this one. It crawls out of the paper, and coughs, and lifts its head, and Stan brings his heel down. “You’re a pathetic piece of shit!” he screams. “You’re worth nothing! Less than nothing! This is _your fault!_ ” 

The clone wails, throwing its hands up to protect itself. Stan kicks it onto its back and crouches over it, shaking with pent-up energy. He reels his arm back. “I fucking _hate you!”_

It’s feels good. Not great. But good. He’ll take it.

*

“Hey,” he says, to the next one, “you know what we should do?” 

The clone drops the book it was trying to decipher with palpable relief. “Yeah?”

“We should fuck,” Stan says. 

“Huh,” the clone says. They stare at each other. “You got his glasses?”

“Don’t be sick,” Stan says. He does. They’re in the drawer to his left. “I wanna fuck _me.”_

It gives him a _sure, buddy,_ kind of look, but it stands and goes over to him and sits on him. Stan grunts. “So how’s this gonna go?” it asks.

“I don’t know, you dumb sack of shit,” Stan says. “You tell me.” 

Stan wonders if the expression that flickers over the clone’s face is one others see on his, if his poker face is really that bad. “What?” Stan says, pressing his hands into the clone’s hips. “Did I hurt your _feelings?”_

“I mean,” the clone says. “Kinda. The fuck, man? You really gonna use me as a punching bag?” 

Stan’s laugh is slightly manic. “I can do whatever I want,” he says. “You don’t mean shit to me.” He leans in and licks the curve of the clone’s shoulder, to prove it – it gasps and jerks in pain; the smell of spilt ink floods the air between them. Stan licks his lips.

“Ow – ow, _shit,_ what?” The clone touches its shoulder, which has warped and gone black. “What’s happening to me? Why did that…?” Stan shoves it off of him, and stands over it. He expects the violent rush, the adrenaline – any minute now, it’ll come to him, and he’ll feel nothing but savage glee.

He undoes his pants. The clone stares up at him. Slowly, resignation comes over its – his – face. He sits up on his elbows and waits, watching Stan, like he already knows what’s coming. But he couldn’t possibly. “You worthless piece of shit,” Stan says, and begins to piss on the clone’s chest. “Fuck you,” Stan says, louder, because the clone just dips his head to watch the pooling liquid as it drains down his stomach, through his chest. “Fuck you,” Stan says, louder. The clone lifts his face and looks at him – not with fear, or anger, but with pity. “ _Fuck you!_ ” He points the stream directly into the clone’s face.

Then, it’s over. No fanfare, no screams. The ink and piss spill out across the floor, slow and steady. Stan is shaking all over, compulsively, like he’s been out in the cold for too long without gloves. He is empty, and small, dwarfed by his Sisyphean task, dwarfed by something dark inside of him that he knows, now, can only grow.

*

He goes to the office, holding his bat in the hook of his thumb and forefinger. He stands, and gazes at the copier. 

Stan will survive. It’s the only option he has. There is no point in pretending otherwise. 

Stan takes a step forward, raises the bat, and swings.


End file.
